Who We Are
by Scorch The Earth
Summary: After Henry Allen's death, Barry is lost in the wreckage of shame and self-blame. It seems as though the only solution is to give up being the Flash. However, when S.T.A.R Labs gets a letter from a girl asking for help, Barry finds a new reason to continue being the Flash. A team to teach may be exactly what Barry Allen needs to reform his life once more.
1. Chapter 1

It had been a perfectly normal day, for a perfectly normal family living in the suburbs of Central City. The day had started out as any other day had. Mr. Marvin dropped off their nine year-old girl at school in the morning, before heading out to his rather boring job in a cubicle. This was something Mrs. Marvin would normally do, if not for her very early and very important business meeting. She did important work for Central City Picture News, and with the particle accelerator making it's debut in the night to come, Picture News was a swarm of busy writers and reporters.

Little Max Marvin, a joyful girl sitting in the third grade classroom of Carmichael Elementary, did not understand the exciting buzz that accompanied Harrison Wells. She did not understand why her mother had left quite early that morning for this man. All she knew about Mr. Wells was simply this: fake smile, thick glasses, and a cheesy smell that followed him wherever he wandered. Max did not like Mr. Harrison Wells, or anyone that stopped her mother from waking her up in the morning with a smile and a plate of bacon for that matter. Max was not a snotty brat, mind you. Her father just wasn't able to cook bacon with enough love like her mother could.

The little 9 year-old did not pay much attention to class that day. The light brown frizz of her curly hair hid her from the activities around her, and the book in her hands was, by far, a more important world than the real one. And anyways, Max had forgotten her glasses at home. There was no way she was going to be able to read the things her teacher was writing on the board.

When Mr. Marvin finally came to pick Max up from school, she had many stories to tell, involving the knight in silver armor and the dragon in red scales, who were both battling it out viciously in the book she was reading. Mr. Marvin, of course, did not pay the slightest amount of attention to his daughter. He only nodded and smiled, much like he did when listening to his wife.

"What's Mama doing home?" Max asked her father as they pulled into their driveway. Mr. Marvin didn't answer, only shrugging his shoulders and parking the car. Max knew for certain that she did not get her adventuring, constantly-curious genes from her father, who liked to shrug a lot.

Max hopped out of the car with a spring in her step, empty bookbag flapping against her back as she ran to the front door, excited to see her mother after her absence in the morning.

The door swung open before Max even had the time to knock. She was immediately picked up into warm arms, giggling in happiness as she was spun about in Mrs. Marvin's arms.

"Sweet pea! It's so good to see you!" Her mother exclaimed, clinging to her girl as if it had been forever since she had seen her. Her heels clicked along the hardwood floor as she spun in circles with her daughter, enjoying the squeals of joy.

A somewhat unimpressed expression produced by Mr. Marvin caused Mrs. Marvin to put down her daughter gently. After all, in her husband's eyes, dancing around in heels with full view to the neighbors was not proper, "perfect" family conduct.

"What are you doing home, Emma?" Mr. Marvin asked his wife as he closed the front door, "I thought you were covering the accelerator tonight."

"I was," Mrs. Marvin responded as she helped Max out of her pink and orange bookbag, "but they put the new intern on it. I would be upset, but poor Linda is scared to death, so I think I can let this one slide."

Once Max was successfully out of her bookbag, and her shoes were thrown close enough to the shoe cubby, she ran into the living room, book clutched in her small hands as she fell into the couch. Mrs. Marvin watched on in adoration, knowing that most kids would come home and disappear into the T.V screen. However, Mr. Marvin did not seem to appreciate his daughter quite as much.

"Sit up, Max. Beds are for laying in, not couches," Mr. Marvin scolded. Mrs. Marvin, however, was fed up already with her husband for the day. Simply laying down on a couch was not a crime, and Max was only nine. Falling on couches with books was something to cherish while you still could, before you got married like she did.

"Well, Frank, if laying on couches is a sin, we're going to have to get another bed. You do it so much at night, I almost thought you were forgetting you used to sleep with me."

That shut Mr. Marvin up very fast, and a pink tinge of something akin to frustration or embarrassment gracing his cheeks did not go unnoticed by Emma Marvin.

Max shifted uncomfortably, unable to focus on her book. She was hoping there would be a minute or two before the bickering started. Her "perfect" family home was not so perfect as everyone thought. Of course, nothing in life was perfect. But she wasn't too young to notice how horrible it was to hear her parents fight.

"May I go out to the tree house?" Max asked, saying something before another hurtful shot could be thrown.

Her tree house was her sacred place. She could disappear into the tree house for hours on end, reading and sleeping and simply being. She could escape words, tears, and scary relatives with her tree house. It was the only thing her dad had ever made her, besides his faulty bacon. And it was a good tree house, because back then he was able to make things with love too, just like her mother.

"Of course, darling. Don't forget to bring a blanket, it's going to get a bit chilly- And don't forget to come in for dinner!" Mrs. Marvin called after her daughter as the young girl sprang about, grabbing a blanket, her glasses, and her book before running out the back door towards her favorite escape.

There wasn't too much to the tree house. There was no furniture or anything fancy. There was simply a roof, four walls, and a floor. But Max loved her tree house, and there could be no better tree house than the one that was in her backyard. There was no better feeling than crawling through the hatch in the house's floor, leaving the world behind her.

Naturally, Max totally forgot about dinner. Her mother brought it out to her, a steamy hot bowl of soup tasting even better in the chill than it did in the warm house. She thanked her mother politely, and enjoyed the food happily. Curling up with a blanket, a book, and soup; it was things like these that reminded her she had many things to be happy for.

But of course, curling up in a happy tree house that day in March was not Mr. Harrison Well's plan for the good Central City.

Max did not hear the storm rolling in, just like she never heard the yelling when she disappeared into her books. She did not hear the distant thunder, or the steadily increasing patter of rain on the roof of her escape. And Max Marvin certainly did not hear the sirens that were blaring from the T.V in the living room, Linda Park shouting over the storm and sirens that something was going very wrong at S.T.A.R Labs.

She didn't hear any of this, until her mother's voice pierced through their back yard, breaking Max's trance in her fantasy world.

"Max!" her mother shouted from the back porch, calling through the thunder claps and torrential rain, "Max, get inside now!"

A loud clap of thunder came after her mother's words of concern, sending her tiny heart into a wild frenzy. Adrenalin crowded her thoughts as she sprung to action, heartbeat thrumming in her ears as she grabbed her book and blanket hastily. Max threw open the hatch to the rope ladder, sending a strong wind into the room that felt harshly cold and very angry. But the adventurer inside her rose in excitement. Shouldering her blanket and grasping her book, she began to make the journey down the rope ladder.

Sudden cold March rain drenched her back as she made her rushed descent from her tree house. Her vision filled with water droplets and she wished, not for the first time, for someone to make the invention of windshield wipers on glasses.

The rain made her cozy blanket grow heavy with weight, and it began to slip from her shoulder. She held onto it, not daring to give up on her blanket. But she went slower down the ladder now, and her mother was becoming quite scared. The sirens that were coming from the T.V were not helping her feeling of anxiety and fear.

"Max, leave your things, you need to get inside!" her mother screamed. But Max did not listen, gripping her book and blanket with all the strength her small body could muster.

Her blanket suddenly fell from her shoulders, flying away with the wind that was throwing her rope ladder around. Max held tightly to her book, squeezing her eyes shut as the gust of wind threatened to take her away. Her mother's screams in the background kept her from stopping on the ladder, however. Max knew her mother had faith in her small and young soul. And after all, it would be silly to be afraid of a storm. The heros in her books weren't afraid of storms taking them away, so neither would she.

Max Marvin almost made it to the ground. Her bare feet brushed the grass blades, her destination almost reached, when the explosions occurred.

The sky turned orange, too much like fire to be lightning. It was a nightmare. It was bone chilling. It was frightening.

All little Max wanted was to be in her mother's arms at that moment. She began to turn her head in her mother's direction, about to shout out for her, when the the orange wave hit.

Max was thrown like a rag doll across the yard, her vision tumbling with dark outlines of trees and bright oranges. She lost consciousness when she hit the wet ground, her neck and head snapping back as they made harsh contact with the muddy marsh.

The last thing she was aware of before she became darkness was the paperback book, still faithfully clutched in her tiny fist, never leaving her side.


	2. Chapter 2: Present Day

Oh boi, loads of angst ahead. But do not worry, it won't be like this for the whole story, trust me. I don't have enough energy to create stuff angsty stuff every chapter :p Yes, this story is still alive :p Takes place after Zoom, but there's no Flashpoint. Because let's be honest, that was a mess. Enjoy!

* * *

There was nothing to describe the feeling of waking up every night, terror clawing in his chest and a nightmare thrumming in his ears. There was no way to talk about his sudden fear of lightning and sleep. He could tell no one about how intimately acquainted he had become with his bedroom ceiling, memorizing its every detail while avoiding his nightmares and his twisted reality.

Silence was not the correct term for the misery that he had built for himself. Barry Allen was now a man who only got up for stale crackers or bathroom excursions. It was emptiness that he had made a nest in, becoming a recluse to anything human or meta.

It had been three weeks since Barry had been seen outside his apartment. Three weeks since the blue lightning had disappeared. Three weeks since the forensic scientist of CCPD had last shown up for work. Three weeks since the Scarlet Speedster had last been spotted in the streets of Central City.

Three weeks and one day since his father had been murdered by another speedster.

Barry shuddered at the memory of his father's death, curling deeper into himself, burrowing into his heavy blankets. But nothing could stop the sickening sound of skin and bones being shred, the gasp of a painful death, resurfacing once more. Barry's throat closed up as he remembered the thud of a corpse hitting the ground. The sound was painfully detailed, so clear that someone could have dropped dead at the side of Barry's bed, and he would have thought it was the memory he was hearing.

His chest heaved in pain as the weight of grief grew heavier. A dry sob released from his constricted throat, tears already used up for the day. He could only shiver and release a wheezy sound to at all please the crushing weight on his chest.

Barry knew he was a wreck. He knew that he looked less than human now, dark circles under his eyes and gaunt cheekbones that had lost their fat or flush. His stubble was dark and haggard, and his cracked pale lips left nothing to the imagination as to the lack of water he had been consuming. He was a mess, and he had seen it in his friend's eyes when they had visited two weeks before.

Cisco and Caitlin had really tried to get him to surface from his depressive state. They talked to him about anything under the sun, anything that would pull Barry Allen out of bed. They bribed him with "work" and "Flash", trying to find something to motivate him enough to move. But Barry had only looked at them with vacant eyes, hugging himself harder and harder with every mention of his alter-ego as a speedster. They had left quietly after they realized they could not help, concern and hopelessness written painfully all over their faces. Work was the only way his friends knew how to cope with loss and pain. If they couldn't motivate Barry with the same tactic, they were at a loss in bringing their friend back to life.

He appreciated their concern, and he understood they were quite scared for him. But he wanted to be left alone, to decompose in peace. After their visit, all contact ceased. Iris stopped calling him at the top of every hour, leaving voice messages after each and every call. Joe stopped coming over and slipping small meals through his door. Even Captain Singh stopped bugging him with angry calls concerning his absence from work.

But Barry couldn't find it in himself to care any longer. Ever since the sickening crunch of bones... Ever since his father fell onto the same carpet that his mother had died on, ever since he watched his father's blood reunite with his dead mother's memory…

Barry felt the sickening bile stir in the pits of his stomach. His throat closed around itself harder as his dry weeping grew heavier. The blood, the death, the black claws, the blue lightning-

In a human-paced dash towards the bathroom, he retched up the remains of his last stale crackers, a horrid sound filling the emptiness of his apartment. When he was done, he sat there, sitting in front of the bowl now filled with his sick. His stomach was empty, he felt hungry, and his sadness was staring back at him from a toilet bowl.

His body shook violently as his dry crying took over, the heavy feeling in his lungs overtaking all sensible actions. He curled into a ball, holding himself tightly so as to not fall apart into a million pieces. He knew he was a sad sight, sitting on the bathroom floor, gasping for air and clinging to his legs. The emptiness in Barry's stomach, the horrible taste in his mouth, the growing stubble; he was losing all ability to live.

Three weeks of crying and hiding from the pain that came with his father's death. Henry would have never wanted to see Barry like this, that much he knew. This was no way to honor his father's death.

And yet, at the same time, he could not get the picture of his murder out of his head. He could not stop thinking that his murder was his fault. If only he wasn't the Scarlet Speedster. Zoom would have never gone after his father if it weren't for him playing hero. He had killed people by being a hero.

But the smiles of his friends, of the people he saved, filled him with happiness. A selfish happiness. It wasn't right. He felt like a villain, an imposter trying to be a hero and bringing death along with it.

Barry felt dirty, inside and out. He felt vile, a different kind of weight settling on his lungs and stomach. One that produced broiling hot feelings and self-hatred. One that he immediately needed to wash off before it infected him too much.

He unwrapped his arms from around his legs, his breathing calming as he reached over from the ground and turned on the tap water to his shower. Steam immediately started filling the room, covering him in a safe cloud as he undressed. He flushed his sick down the toilet before getting into the bathtub, submerging himself in scorching hot water. Back when he used to care, Barry would have jumped quickly out of the water, his skin too sensitive to the water's temperature. Now, however, he welcomed the pain as a sort of awakening, an alarm to remind him that he was still indeed alive enough to feel anything.

Barry soaped the dirt and sweat that had accumulated off his body, scrubbing with a little more raw force than necessary. He washed his hair, massaging deeply into his scalp as if to rub away his memories. Of course, this didn't actually happen. But the feeling, the process of it all, felt cleansing. Not rejuvenating, no. Grief did not wash away with a simple bath. And if any tears trailed down his cheeks during the process, no one was the wiser.

Barry was in the middle of drying off his hair, contemplating what food he'd be able to stomach other than stale crackers, when his cellphone rang. He flinched in surprise, being the first call in weeks.

It wasn't the tell-tale tone of the Imperial March Cisco had programmed for himself, nor was it Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" that Iris demanded her ringtone be. No, it was police sirens. And only one person had police sirens as a ringtone in Barry's phone.

For a couple of seconds, Barry pondered if he should answer. He had yet to answer any call from work, or any call from anyone for that matter. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to face the outside world, he wasn't ready to face reality again. He wanted to disappear, be invisible for a while longer.

But he knew, at some point, he'd have to answer _someone's_ call. Might as well answer the one person that wouldn't try to make him feel better.

He stumbled out of the bathroom in a hurry, tripping over his towel as he quickly rushed to his bedroom. He barely made it to the phone, snatching it off his bedside table and quickly answering it before the Captain was directed to voicemail.

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Barry wondered if he had been indeed too late, when-

"Allen. Get your ass out of your apartment. I am going out of my way for you right now. I will see you at Jitters in ten minutes. I know you can get there in time." Captain Singh spat, Barry's heart leaping in fear at the tone.

"Wha-" Barry began, before the loud 'click' from the Captain's phone signified the end of their "conversation".

Barry stood frozen for a moment, phone still held to his ear. There was something ominous in his tone. Something… different. Like David Singh wanted to have an aggressive heart-to-heart with his worst employee. A shiver of horror ran through Barry's body at the thought.

Was he ready to face Captain Singh? Being in the force meant dedication to doing good, to keeping the people safe. He hadn't done that. He hadn't come close to doing that. He killed when he thought he was saving. He was a villain disguised as a hero, whose parents died with the impression that their son was worth their sacrifice. Hell no, he wasn't ready for this.

He immediately regretted answering the call. A horrible doom settled deep into the pits of his stomach, knowing something was about to go horribly wrong if his boss wanted to take him out for coffee.

* * *

Somehow, ten minutes later, Barry found himself walking into CC Jitters. The walk there had been difficult. Noises and smells and people; he had never noticed how many people there were. Everything was overwhelming. Too loud, too busy for the ex-flash to handle.

He contemplated turning around a few too many times, wanting to give up and return to the bubble he had created over the weeks. It wasn't safe outside, where he could attract unwanted attention, mess things u-

A sudden thud sounded from one of the construction sites nearby. Barry froze, heart hammering in his throat as the image of a lifeless body hit the floor, the sound of the contact sounding eerily similar to the construction sounds.

God, if he only hadn't existed. His life had killed more people than any other superhero.

Barry had almost puked at this thought while crossing the street, stomach flipping nauseously at the blatant truth of it all. He had been called a hero, but there would have been no saving to be done if he didn't exist. He was right to disappear. Without him, no one would have ever died to begin with. No one would have been in danger because they knew Barry Allen.

And yet here he was, in CC Jitters, with a coffee named after him as if he were some saint and _damn_ it he shouldn't have taken a shower that morning or answered that call because he sure as hell wasn't ready for-

"Allen!" Someone shouted from a hightop table, trying to get the skittish Barry's attention before the kid bolted. Barry hadn't noticed his hand grabbing for the door, ready to push it back open and leave before he could regret another single moment of his choice. But he was too late, and Singh had seen him, and there was no retreat from that death glare.

Barry slowly made his way over to the table, legs moving stiffly and awkwardly towards the captain. It felt eerily close to a funeral procession, and damn it if Barry knew better than anyone what a funeral procession felt like.

David Singh couldn't believe his eyes. This person walking towards him, the man that was holding himself as if he were about to break into a million pieces, the man that hung his head and only made eye contact with the ground, looked nothing like the energetic Barry Allen that he knew. The man's haggard face was covered in unruly stubble, and it was obvious he hadn't been sleeping. He was dressed in a baggy grey sweatshirt and red sweatpants. How he had gotten out of the house seemed to be a mystery. Barry was barely alive as it was.

Thank god Cisco had contacted David when he had. Another day, and Barry could quite possibly be dead. The kid was quite literally dying on his feet. It worried the Captain. Yes, okay, he cared for Allen. The boy was so broken all the time, and if what Cisco had said was right… If Barry really was the Flash… Well, Barry had always been really good at sending himself down self-hate lane.

"You, ah, wanted to see-" Barry began, standing next to the table and keeping his eyes to the ground.

"Sit." Singh ordered, gesturing to the seat across from him. Barry did, sitting down into the tense silence that hung in the air.

It was odd to be sitting at a table in a coffee shop with his boss. The captain's large desk was no longer there between the two of them. Gone was the professional atmosphere and the bowl of M&M's Singh kept on his desk. There was no longer a picture of the Captain's two corgis, Batman and Robin, to avert his eyes to. Nor was there the picture of a younger Singh, at a rock concert getting up close and personal with someone that looked suspiciously like Hartley Rathaway, to concentrate on. It felt more raw, more vulnerable, than any other meeting Barry had ever had with the acting captain of the CCPD.

The Captain squinted and cocked his head, squaring his shoulders as he did so. Barry could only wonder what ghosts the Captain was seeing from across the table.

"Do you have… _any_ guess as to why I called you here?" Singh asked, obviously not looking for an answer.

"Well, I-" Barry tried, clasping his hands together tightly underneath the table. The Captain, of course, interrupted before Barry could finish his sentence.

"Do you know how people are talking about you back at the precinct? What questions they're asking?" Captain Singh growled, leaning in slightly as if he were trying to make eye contact with Barry. However, Barry did not look up, instead opting to squeeze his clasped hands tighter as the nervous churning returned to his stomach.

"I don't know," Barry mumbled, trying to come up with a suitable answer, "Maybe they're wondering where I've been?"

The Captain's eyebrows shot up in surprise while he let out an exasperated laugh, "Where you've… Damn Allen. I thought I hired a smarter forensic scientist. Are you serious?"

The anxious feeling turned to slight anger at the words. Barry didn't have the energy to deal with this right now, he didn't feel like being told he was more of a failure than he already knew.

"Look, Captain, I haven't exactly been in the best shape for the last three weeks. In case you didn't hear, my father was _murdered_."

Barry instantly regretted snapping back at the Captain as the man leaned forward more, his elbows coming to rest on the table. Their eyes met and held. And Barry swore he saw a glimmer of something similar to pity pass through his gaze.

"That's just it, Allen. Your father was murdered. Murdered by a speedster, hellbent on killing to put himself in a position of power. Your father, a completely irrelevant person, killed by Zoom, a speedster whose goal was to break the Flash in every way possible. The only connection to your father is you, Barry. Of course, there's Joe too. But it doesn't take a detective to know Joe couldn't fit into that Flash suit."

Barry froze. Time stopped. No, he couldn't know. No. Barry could not do this. He couldn't be the Flash, not anymore. The next Zoom or Eobard could target the Captain if he knew, Barry could not add him to the list of people in danger because he couldn't keep a secret.

The sounds of bones crushing and bodies hitting the floor started to ring in his head once more, flashes of his father's blood soaking into the carpet appearing before his eyes.

The room suddenly felt small, closing in on him as the sounds of the shop got suddenly louder. He hadn't been ready. He couldn't do this. He had to leave. Now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Barry murmured quickly, getting out of his seat hastily as his breathing became faster, already thinking of the fastest route home, "I'm not Flash."

Captain Singh stumbled out of his seat as he realized what Barry was doing. Something had scared him, and now he was trying to escape. The boy's hazel eyes were as wide as saucers, and his chest was heaving deeply. All signs that something was frightening him.

 _Panic attack._

"Crap. Cisco, get ready. Allen's running." Singh said to the com piece in his ear, stumbling out of his chair as he went to chase after Barry.

Barry walked faster, throwing the door open before sprinting away from CC Jitters, desperately trying to lose Captain Singh. He couldn't let another person know, he could not let another person die in the hands of the person they thought to be a hero. He wasn't the Flash, not anymore.

"Allen!"

Barry risked a glance behind him as he sprinted, spotting the Captain not far behind. He was about to pick up the pace, determined to get away, when out from the bushes sprang Cisco, decked out in Vibe costume. He only had a few seconds to register this before he was knocked back by a particular blast, sending him sprawling. Cisco had been getting better at using his powers, that was for certain.

Barry's head hit the cement with a sickening 'thunk', and everything went black.

* * *

Enjoy? I hope you did! Feedback is definitely appreciated! Feel free to point out any typos!


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